


Twelve Nights

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen, Phryne's Journey 2019 Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2019-10-03 05:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Eleven locations, twelve evenings on Phryne's journey from Melbourne to London. For the 2019 monthly challenge





	1. Melbourne, Australia

**Author's Note:**

> For the [2019 monthly challenge](https://missfisherchallenges.tumblr.com/post/181608876443/phrynes-journey-melbourne-australia) I decided that what I needed to do was a series of short (probably under a thousand words) ficlets surrounding the stops on Phryne's flight to London. It will most definitely be AU by the time the movie comes out, but hopefully it will be fun all the same.

### Thursday, September 5th

Having seen Dot and Hugh off, the newlyweds beaming in joy, Phryne said her goodbyes to the rest of the family. Aunt Prudence first, then her father and Mr. Butler as they left to return to Wardlow, and finally Mac embraced with lingering adoration and an admonishment to fly safe. Jack was last; she hesitated, finding her resolve weakening ever-so-slightly for the first time since she’d made her decision that afternoon. Their timing really was terrible.

“I’d invite you for a nightcap,” she said,  “but my father…”

She let her words trail off, hoping he would fill in the blanks. The idea of having any sort of conversation with her father’s presence looming was more than she could face, under the circumstances; thankfully, Jack seemed to read her meaning.

“You’ll need an early night,” he replied, then gave a tiny, teasing smile. “I imagine you’ll be awake much earlier than usual.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Unfortunately. I’m hoping to be in the air by 8, get as far as possible before my father begins protesting in earnest.”

She felt more than saw his nod, but it was understanding all the same. Her hand itched to straighten his lapel, the familiar action resisted through sheer force of will; it wasn’t the time.

“I hate to ask, in that case, but I could use your signature on some statements before you leave.  It shouldn’t take long, but…”

“No, of course,” she said. “Shall we walk, or…?”

His eyes turned to the sky. The shooting star was long gone, but perhaps he didn’t need it.

“The weather’s nice,” he said, “but if you need to get home…”

She needed him. Or wanted him, at the very least. She took his arm, setting off towards the station. It was a short journey, no more than fifteen minutes or so; they barely spoke as they walked. What could they say, really, when she’d be gone in the morning? But it was not an unhappy silence, for all that lay unresolved between them.

The station was near empty when they arrived; they moved into his office, where Phryne took a seat in one of the visitor’s chairs and quickly signed the paperwork Jack required. Her eyes roamed the room as she did, committing every detail to memory. A melancholy exercise, but she’d spent so much time here she’d stopped seeing it in full. She didn’t want to forget.  When the signatures were done, she looked towards Jack, standing next to his office whiskey.

“A drink?” he offered. “To toast new adventures?”

She glanced at the clock on the mantel, though her decision was already made.

“Perhaps just the one.”    

He poured out two drinks, offering her one and then leaning back against his desk, his tumbler cradled in his hand and his legs stretched out before him. He looked so at ease, and the aching wave that had loomed washed over her in one go.

She remembered the observatory, his hand on her waist and his gaze so certain. _Would you like me to improve on it?_ Remembered her own certainty as she’d replied. She had wanted it, _still_ wanted it, more than anything. Just not more than this. This she had to do.

She sipped her whiskey to hide her thoughts. Wondered what thoughts his own still face hid. Whether he thought she was running, or that it was a foolish endeavor, or any number of things. But she could not live by what someone else thought, however much she valued their judgement.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he finally asked. She clearly didn’t hide her surprise well, because he gave a small laugh. “Not that I don’t believe you eminently capable, Phryne, but you must admit it is a last minute decision.”

She opened her mouth to tell him she’d be fine—it was a last minute decision, yes, but she’d planned the route from London to Melbourne several times over the years and could easily reverse the direction, she’d already messaged friends along the way, made contact with fuelling stations… she would be fine.

“Write to me?” she said instead.

Her voice was not pleading, she did not do _pleading_ , but it might have been a very near thing. It was his turn to be surprised, but he hid it behind the tiny turn of his lips she knew was a smile. She wouldn’t be gone forever, but she really would miss this life while she was.

“I’d like that,” he said simply.

“Me too,” she said, and raised the half-drunk whiskey in a toast. “To adventures, then.”

“And to adventuresses,” he replied, raising his own in turn, “wherever the wind may take them.”


	2. Surabaya, Dutch East Indies

### Friday, September 13th

Phryne shifted the basket of fruit to her other hand and unlocked the hotel room door, already planning her letter to Mac. It had been a week since she’d left Melbourne, and they’d arrived in Surabaya around lunchtime. Phryne had considered pushing on, but her father had been complaining about flying on _Friday the 13th_ , a superstition he’d never paid any attention to until it suited him; still, it was better to be well rested and arrive in London safely, so she’d conceded to stay for two nights. 

Entrusting her airplane to the mechanic at the hangar, she’d shipped her father off to the hotel, then went to the hangar office to send several telegrams--a reassurance to her mother they were on schedule and her father was well; a vent to Mac that her father was a perpetual nuisance; and informing her household and Aunt Prudence of the changed itinerary. Task completed, she then headed into the city to wander for a few hours, taking in the colour and vibrancy. She loved this part of travelling, the thousands of lives running parallel to her own, intersecting only for a moment in all a lifetime. 

It also made her miss home, just a little. So she’d purchased a bevy of fruits at the local market and planned to write to Mac, to bring her the heat, the colours, the sweet, fresh taste of pomelo still warm from the sun. The mix of languages washing over her. The joy of flight, the wind in her face, the horizon before her and the sea and land below. 

She was halfway through the letter, telling her about the performing monkeys on the streets, how charmed she’d been by their mischievous personalities until the moment she’d spotted the heavy chain around their waists, when there was a knock at the door. 

Taking a last bite of fruit, she moved to the door to open it; it was a member of staff, a boy of perhaps 13, who held out a handful of telegrams. Tipping him generously, she quickly rifled through the envelopes, smiling at each new message. 

STILL GOOD TIME (STOP) ADVENTURESSES FOLLOWING ROUTE EAGERLY (STOP) FLY SAFE 

CONGRATULATIONS MISS (STOP) MARRIED LIFE WELL (STOP) ALL OUR LOVE DOROTHY COLLINS

TELL HENRY TO BEHAVE (STOP) GIVE MARGARET MY LOVE 

Expecting the final envelope to be from her mother, and surprised she’d replied so quickly, she opened it and gave a small laugh, feeling the imprint of a week-old kiss against her lips. Just one word. 

YES.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The dancing monkeys are known locally as topeng monyet, and are a topic of debate in some circles.


	3. Singapore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March's fic, from both the location and the prompt
>
>> “You lose nothing by being polite. … If there was a good reason why it is ‘No’, it must remain ‘No’, but the man must be told politely.” – Lee Kuan Yew, first Prime Minister of Singapore

### Tuesday, September 17th

Phryne trailed a finger over the curve of her glass, catching the condensation as it beaded. Singapore was hot, even in the late evening.

“Is this seat taken?”

She turned to the speaker, a man with eyes so dark they seemed black, and a sweep of blonde hair that he hadn’t attempted to tame. 

“No,” she said, extending her hand in greeting. “Phryne Fisher. Please, sit.”

“Alistair McGowan,” the man replied, kissing the back of her hand before taking the empty chair. “Is this your first time at the Raffles?”

It was a predictable opening, perhaps, but the spark in his eyes made it more entertaining than it otherwise would have been. 

“No, but the first in a few years,” Phryne said. Then, to sidestep inconvenient questions about reasons and travel companions, added, “The last time I was here there was a tiger in the billiards room.”

Alistair gave a grand laugh, open and contagious.

“You’re charming, Miss Fisher, but I’ve already heard that story. You couldn’t have been more than a girl when that happened.”

Phryne shrugged and smiled.

“Alright, I admit, it was a lion.”

“A lioness, I might believe,” Alistair said, motioning to the bartender for the same cocktail as Phryne was drinking, the house special. 

“Is there much of a distinction, Mr. McGowan?”

“Depends how zoological your interests are, I suppose,” he said, still smiling, still at ease.

She could have him. She recognised this game, knew the steps. He wouldn’t be green, but he wouldn’t be jaded either. His hands were broad and his lips kissable, and she suspected that he was the sort of man that would talk as he fucked, who would make her laugh and thank her as he left in the morning. 

“Zoology was never my strong suit,” she said.

“No?” 

His smile was teasing, tempting. She found she wasn’t tempted.

“Afraid not,” Phryne said kindly. “But I do appreciate a good conversationalist, if you’re interested.”

The man tilted his head, then smiled once more. The bartender brought his drink, and he stood.

“Come onto the verandah,” he said. “There’s a cooling wind coming in, and I would love to hear about the lion in the billiards room.”

“Did I say billiards?” Phryne teased, taking his arm and leading the way outside. “On second thought, it might have been the ballroom. Quite trod on my gown, it was rather rude of him...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Raffles Hotel was the premier hotel in Singapore at the time, and has a [fascinating history](http://www.rafflessingapore.com/history/). The tiger in the billiards room was reported to happen in 1902. The house special is a Singapore Sling.


	4. Bangkok, Siam

### Saturday, September 21st

She was going to kill her father. She was going to get him into the air tomorrow morning and then she was going to dump him into the water. ‘Such a tragedy,’ she’d say. ‘One ill-timed gust of wind and he was gone.’ She was going to kill her father, and she was going to _enjoy_ it. 

She’d spent most of the morning studying maps and calculating fuel usage, trying to shave time off the journey. They’d run into more delays than she’d anticipated, and her mother’s telegram the day before hadn’t been nearly as eager for Henry’s arrival as the previous ones--apparently another debtor had contacted her, and Phryne’d had to wire more money to tide her over. And if Phryne would rather not be in the air this particular day… well, a shortened journey was in everyone’s best interests regardless. 

The peace didn’t last. She’d received a message before _lunch_ from the local police; Henry Fisher had been arrested. Public drinking. Public nuisance. Which translated as piss-drunk and pissing in a local temple. She’d almost left him there, but took some sympathy on the police officers forced to deal with him; she was quite certain she hadn’t imagined the local inspector’s look of relief when she’d announced why she was there.

And that hadn’t even been the end of it. Oh no. Her father was in fine form today; he’d been charming the woman in the cell next to him when she’d gone to retrieve him, but quickly proclaimed his innocence to Phryne. He’d have the damned gall to suggest they stop for a drink on their return to the hotel. She’d barely gotten him into his room before he began sobbing, saying he was such a failure as a father, a tactic he only broke out when others had failed; she’d sternly gave him a drink of water and a powder and sent him to bed, and was almost out the door when he’d said it.

“It wasn’t supposed to be her.”

Cold and heat flooded her body in an instant, and she froze, her chest heavy. Fifteen years of guilt, fifteen years of _I lost her_ and _I failed her_ and _It should have been me_ , fifteen years of birthdays that never came to pass, crashed over her. But that wasn’t his guilt to lay, and like hell would she give him this power.

“No, it wasn’t,” she said, suddenly calm, her back still to him. 

It wasn’t supposed to be, but it was. And now they knew the role Henry had unwittingly played. He didn’t respond, not that she’d expected him to, lost in his own thoughts.

“She was such a beautiful girl,” Henry slurred. 

Phryne smiled despite herself, remembering all the times Janey had been called the ‘good’ child, the ‘pretty’ one; she’d always climb higher, run faster, get messier every time she had, determined to prove herself a true Collingwood pirate. Tough as nails, her sister. 

“You should have been watching her.”

He meant it to be accusatory, but it was simply sad. Part of her wanted to agree; part wanted to argue. Neither one would change the past. 

“You live with your guilt,” Phryne said, stepping out of the bedroom, “I have enough of my own.”

Shutting the door behind her, she breathed deeply and blinked back tears. One slipped out, and she dashed it away with the back of her hand. She’d retire to her own rooms, spend the rest of the day as she’d intended. 

Decision made, she left the suite and headed to her own rooms. As she was crossing the lobby she was stopped by the hotel’s owner.

“Telegrams, Miss Fisher,” she said. “I was told they were urgent.”

She thanked her, taking the two envelopes--the sender had been scrawled on the outside of the envelopes, one from Mac and one from Jack. The only two people likely to have known both the significance of the date and her current location. The tears were back, but she hid them behind a smile until she was in her own room.

Jack’s was on top, and she hastily opened it.

> KEEP EYES SKYWARD BUT REMEMBER YOU ARE NOT A TELESCOPE

She snorted and laid it aside, turning her attentions to the envelope from Mac. Mac, her oldest friend. Mac, who knew Janey. Mac, who’d only ever missed this date twice, during the war. Her finger slipped beneath the flap, then she hesitated, wondering if it might be too raw. Her hesitation didn’t last long, and as she read the telegram, she was immensely grateful. 

> COLLINGWOOD GIRLS STICK TOGETHER (STOP) MURDER CHARGES ARE A NUISANCE TRY TO AVOID 

Well, perhaps she’d let him live. For now. She had a route to rechart, after all. 


	5. Rangoon, Burma

### Monday, September 23rd

They landed in Rangoon nearly three hours ahead of schedule, courtesy of an early start and some frankly excellent flying on Phryne’s part. She’d considered pushing on, but the journey to Allahabad, the next overnight stop, was primarily flying over open water--an ambitious decision at the best of times, never mind in monsoon season. She’d take in Rangoon and start fresh in the morning.

The city was set on the water, and the western skyline marked by a golden pagoda; she headed towards it, her curiosity piqued. She’d heard of the Shwedagon Pagoda of course, over 300 feet tall and plated in gold and jewels, but she’d underestimated its impact; in the late afternoon light it seemed to glow, drawing her footsteps ever nearer, a gentle wind against her back pushing her onwards. 

She avoided the polished British shop fronts in favour of street stalls, purchasing a number of small items--a parasol for the sun, small gifts for both her mother and her Melbourne friends, a late afternoon snack. She’d just selected a jade pendant for Dot--she was sure her friend was enjoying married life, but Phryne missed her level-headedness and domestic skills immensely--when the stallholder looked at her. 

“You like birds?” the man asked.

“Pardon?”

He gestured towards her scarf, and her hand flew up to touch the swallow brooch still pinned there.

“I suppose I do,” she said. 

He gave a wide smile, extracting a wooden box from beneath the table and opening it.

“You will like this,” he said, showing her the box. Inside lay a silver peacock hair comb, inlaid with sapphires and rubies. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “May I?”

The stall keeper nodded, and she took the rosewood box carefully. The body of the peacock was a large oval ruby, blood red and clear save a centred asterism. Not the sort of item she expected to find in a market--the gem alone could command a high price. She looked up at the man, who shrugged.

“It was made as a birthday gift for the wife of a Governor several years ago,” he said. “When time came for payment, her husband refused to pay the agreed-upon price.”

“Why?”

“Greed, I suspect,” said the man. “Or perhaps entitlement. It would be far from the first time. It is said the Nga Mauk ruby was stolen from our king for your queen, many years ago. An assertion they refuse to acknowledge.”

Phryne was uncertain how to respond, knowing all too well the likeliness of such an event, and turned her attention to the comb once more. 

“Perhaps, Miss Phryne Fisher, lady detective, you can look for our missing ruby when you have returned to England?”

Phryne looked up sharply, wondering what sort of con this was.

“How do you know who I am?”

The man gave a knowing smile and tapped the side of his nose, then laughed. 

“Your journey has made the newspapers,” he said. “Rangoon is not the back of beyond, you know. I simply recognised you.”

She shook her head, embarrassed.

“Of course.”

“But you may have the comb.”

“For a fair price?” she asked, arching an eyebrow and wondering what the condition would be.

“Naturally. And if you choose to look for the Nga Mauk… well, that is a mystery worthy of a lady detective, is it not?”

She could feel her curiosity bubbling beneath the surface, the promise of a case a lure too tempting to ignore.

“You know, it might just be,” she said. “Please, come to The Strand this evening for dinner. I’ll have a few more questions then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ruby is real, and without Phryne on the case has still not been recovered. You can read a fascinating account of it [here](https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/resources/idt-sh/who_stole_burmas_royal_ruby)


	6. Allahabad, India

### Wednesday, September 25th

Phryne woke before sunrise, the weeks of travel accustoming her to the practice; donning her flight clothes and wrapping her scarf over her head for obscurity, she slipped from the hotel suite and headed towards the rivers as the sky began to lighten. Slipping through the streets of the city, she was uncertain what she sought at the triveni sangam, the place where the waters met; the locals’ beliefs were not hers, but still she found herself drawn to it. Where sins were washed away, and souls freed. 

The closer she came, the skyline now streaked in pink, the more people she saw. Even now people came, on foot and in boats, seeking the water; it was so painfully, wonderfully human, water. Sought out as the giver of life, the final resting place of the dead. 

The revelation was like a punch; her steps stumbled, her hand flying to her chest at the sudden ache in her breast bone. The fortress that nearly marked the confluence of the Ganges and the Yamuna was in sight, but for a moment she considered turning back; dawn had come, but shadows still lingered, visible from the corner of her eye, reminding her of another river, other shadows. This was not the Yarra. There was no grove of weeping willows, no young girls lost for years found in its ground. There was no absolution to be found in these waters.

A gentle wind made her scarf flutter, drawing her from her thoughts. She looked around the street, saw the people. Some on a journey, some focused on the rhythms of their everyday life. And what was she? A traveller, yes, but not a pilgrim. A sinner who felt no need to be cleansed. A woman who lived life to the hilt, who did not waste a moment or an opportunity. Her feet began to propel her forward once more, taking her to the rivers’ banks.

She sat at the water’s edge, shoes removed and feet dangling in the water, head tilted back, as the sky lightened and world around her came to life, and thought of her life, ever changing. A sister lost, a fortune found, a war fought, independence won. The blue of the horizon and the blue of the St Kilda foreshore. 

Transcendent. 

Eventually the sun had risen, the city come fully to life. It was time to return to the hotel for breakfast, and continue onwards. She slipped on her shoes and took a final look at the water. Whatever answers she sought, they weren’t found there.


	7. Bandar Abbas, Persia

### Saturday, September 28th

They reached Bandar Abbas just ahead of a dust storm that would ground them until it passed; the plane was buffeted by the first strong winds as they approached the airfield outside the port city, and it took all of Phryne’s strength and experience to land them safely and get the airplane under cover. Her muscles burned with the exertion, and it was only once they were safely in the hangar that she felt she could breathe again.

“Bit rough, that,” Henry said cheerfully, climbing from the plane; she liked it better when he was certain they were going to die. “Still, nothing a stiff drink won’t take care of!”

Phryne handed him his bag instead of responding directly, then pointed to the motorcar she’s arranged to have waiting outside. 

“Go ahead to the hotel,” she said, then patted the wing of the plane. “I have to get her checked over, and I don’t want you stranded here if the storm takes awhile to pass.”

It would take at least an hour to inspect the plane thoroughly; damage didn’t seem likely, but it was better to know now than in the morning. Presuming it was safe to fly by then, which wasn’t a given. A bad dust storm could last for days. Still, there was no use borrowing trouble--better to presume they could continue on than to find a problem when they tried. And if she preferred the quiet found in the nuts and bolts of her plane to her father’s prattle… well, it was hardly the first time. 

Henry didn’t quibble, clearly interested in that stiff drink, and once he was gone Phryne laid her forehead against the body of the plane and breathed deeply. Her muscles were still tight and trembling from the adrenaline and exercise, but after a moment she pushed off the metal and began to examine the plane. 

“Cup of tea?”

She jumped at the voice, turning quickly to see a man about her age with a shock of red hair and a mustache that would sit well on a walrus leaning against the frame of a door she hadn’t noticed. He was dressed in a jodhpurs and a sheepskin jacket despite the heat, clearly a fly-boy, and smiled at her.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said amiably, holding up his hands in a sign of surrender. “Just thought you might need a cuppa after that landing.”

“I wasn’t aware there was anyone else here,” she said. The Bandar Abbas airfield barely qualified as one, and she’d expected anyone still there would be holed up in the office in the other building instead of the nearly empty hangar. 

“Ahh, yes, sorry,” the man said, pushing off the doorway and coming closer. “George Ainsworth.”

“You’re British.”

“Yes, ma’am. RAF boy. Or at least I used to be.”

“You’re a long way from home, George,” she said. Unlike many of her previous stops, Persia was under control of its people. 

“Just the way I like it,” he said with a shrug. “War made strange bedfellows.”

“I thought that was misery?”

He smiled. 

“One generally follows the other,” he said. “Though I expect you knew that.” She neither confirmed nor denied his suspicions, and after a moment he gestured to the room he’d come out of. “Did you want tea? I was about to put the kettle on.”

Phryne looked him over appraisingly. Persia had been neutral in the war, in theory, but the reality had been different. It didn’t surprise her entirely that a man looking to hide from it had found his way here,a place that was both anonymous but familiar.

“Tea would be lovely,” she said with a smile.

George inclined his head in acknowledgment, and for a moment she was reminded of another former military man. Ridiculous. There was very little physical similarity, aside from age and general build, and she could hardly start seeing Jack everywhere. The Shakespeare must have been the cause. She gave herself a shake and turned her attentions back to the machine.

George joined her a few minutes later, bringing first a folding table and then a tray with tea and bāmiyeh, a fried dough treat Phryne had eaten several times in Turkey.

“Not a patch on shortbread,” he said apologetically, “but they’re quite nice.”

Phryne smiled, dusting off her hands and coming over to grab one of the chipped mugs of tea. It was typical army swill, hot and strong enough to choke on. 

“Perfectly fortifying,” she said with a wry grin. 

George smiled. 

“Would you like some help?” he asked, gesturing towards the plane.

Popping a bāmiyeh into her mouth, she smiled back. Outside the wind howled, the sand battering against the corrugated metal of the hangar.

“One old soldier to another?” she asked.

“Is that what you are?” 

His arched eyebrow only heightened the similarity she’d been denying, and she decided that she quite liked the man. 

“It’s what I am today, at least,” she shrugged, taking another swig of tea and then moving back towards the plane. “You can take the left.”


	8. Baghdad, British Mandate of Mesopotamia

### Friday, October 4th

> Inspector,
> 
> It seems I have stumbled upon a mystery in my travels. Two, in fact, but the other involves a stolen ruby and the British Crown--I will fill you in on that once we are both in London, because there’s nothing to be done about it at the moment. The current situation, however… well, I know you are on a boat somewhere in the ocean at the moment and this letter would never arrive in time, even if I had the time to wait. Which I do no, for a multitude of reasons. Still, I am, I will admit, rather lost on the next steps to take. If I were home, this is the moment you would arrive in my parlour with some report or insight, ready to discuss the evidence. But I am not home and so I will pretend you are here instead.
> 
> We landed at the Hinaidi airbase in Baghdad three days ago, and were welcomed into the home of a mid-ranking government official Father knew in London, Bernard Emsworth. I won’t bore you with the details of the evening’s entertainments, but suffice to say it was loud, smoky, and I was subjected to far more card games than any adventuress should. Really, if I hadn’t met his daughter Amelia I might have escaped out a window in my desperation. Amelia is a bright young woman who spends a not-insignificant amount of time studying the life of Miss Gertrude Bell, who she happened to cross paths with here in Baghdad several years ago, and has much passion and a vast knowledge of local history and customs. Truly remarkable. We had a pleasant conversation and retired at the same point in the evening, and that would have been the end of it.
> 
> Except come the next morning, Amelia Emsworth was gone.
> 
> Her father insists it must be an abduction for ransom, though no demand has yet arrived and there is no sign of intruders. I could hardly leave Baghdad behind under the circumstances (it’s most peculiar, but as I wrote that I imagined the exact tilt of your head as you looked at me in--fond, I hope--exasperation), and so I offered my services. I have interviewed her family, the household staff, and her known friends and come up with very little--her private diaries suggest a thirst for adventure, and possibly a fascination with a man she refers to only as M. There is something peculiar about the latter I cannot put my finger on--an older man, perhaps, or one of undesirable status. Whatever it is, nobody in her acquaintance will admit to knowing who this mysterious man could be, though I suspect some know--there is a shifting aversion in some of her friends, the sort that is so often resolved by a trip to the station and some gentle (or ungentle) pressing from the authorities. It is damned inconvenient to lose that particular tool at a time where a young woman’s life could be at stake!
> 
> And so it goes--I am without leads and without a companion to discuss matters. No doubt some dizzying insight will come to me eventually, and hopefully without delaying my journey too long. Which seems a small consideration, and it is, but I find myself thinking of it all the same. At least there is a passable scotch whisky to drown my sorrows.
> 
> Do you know--and I hope you would forgive the transgression if you were really here--that I cannot recall when our nightcaps became a familiar thing? Of course I remember the first, the evening you told me that you’d spoken to Welfare about Jane, and several after that. But I cannot pinpoint the moment I began to lay two tumblers on the tray when a case was particularly vexing, or at the end of an investigation. It is hard to believe, now, that they began so pragmatically, simply a part of doing business--good whisky and sharp insights, and you would grant me some investigative leniency for another day. Not entirely necessary--I am a woman who can achieve her own ambitions--but certainly advantageous. And I feel, in some ways, that we have been friends forever--certainly long enough that it is hard to believe there was ever a time our evenings were strictly professional. I suspect from the outside, few would believe they were-- Oh, I’ve been a fool! I do believe Amelia herself told me M’s identity. I shall interview him directly tomorrow morning, and with any luck I will be back in the air by noon. There might be a happy ending to this story after all, Jack.

* * *

There was a knock on the cabin door, and Jack opened it to find a porter on the other side.

“Telegram,” he said bluntly, passing over an envelope and leaving before Jack could thank him.

Jack opened it, brow furrowing as he read the contents twice.

AMELIA RECOVERED. JOINED ARCH DIG. M WAS BELL ASSOCIATE. STRICTLY BUSINESS. WILL EXPLAIN IN LONDON BUT YOUR HELP INVALUABLE. LOVE HPF

He shook his head--no doubt the explanation would make perfect sense, but for now he was at a loss. Still, there were worse messages to receive and he could draw _some_ conclusions. He crossed the small cabin and poured himself a whisky, lifting it in a silent toast to his currently absent partner and her investigative skills.


	9. Istanbul, Turkey

### Monday, October 7th

Phryne was escorted into a parlour and took a seat, quickly cataloguing the details. The rooms, like its owner and the city itself, was a fusion of European and Turkish sensibilities--the riot of colours and textures was welcoming, and the curtains fluttered in a light breeze off the water. Through the open windows she could make out the Galata Bridge and the Golden Horn, and a coffee shop teeming with men on the street below. She closed her eyes and allowed the familiarity of Istanbul wash over her.

“Phryne, darling,” greeted a voice in Turkish.

Phryne opened her eyes to see her host had arrived. The more the years passed, the more Halide reminded her of Aunt Prudence--the same warmth, the same sharp tongue, the same good heart. But where Aunt P was determined to uphold the status quo, Halide had spent decades attempting to dismantle it. Though not even she had managed to breach the walls of coffee shops, and so the private parlour of her well-appointed flat would have to do.

“Good morning, Halide,” Phryne said, and Halide’s lips twisted in amusement.

“I see your Turkish has grown rusty,” she said, switching to English easily.

“It’s because you never come to see me,” Phryne teasingly replied.

“Yes, well, with the school and the politics and Adnan’s health…”

“Of course,” Phryne said. “It is good to see you.”

Halide nodded in agreement, coming to take a seat opposite Phryne.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

A quick motion of her hand and a servant appeared, bearing a silver cezve and other tools. He bowed slightly to Phryne, his question apparent.

“ _Orta şekerliI_ ,” she requested--slightly sweetened.

The two women watched the coffee being prepared, content to wait silently; when it was done and the servant gone once more, Halide raised her porcelain cup to her lips and took a sip.

“This girl of yours,” she said, “Jane?”

She’d never been one to mince words.

“I suspect you’ll like her,” Phryne replied, then gave a conspiratorial smile. “She does like to cause trouble.”

Halide laughed.

“Like another young woman I once knew,” she said. “I must admit, I was surprised by your letter. And now you’re here only weeks later.”

Phryne rolled her eyes.

“My plans were changed by a family emergency,” she explained. “Jane is only recently returned from France and eager for her next adventure, but she is at school until Christmas and her mother is ill--it was not quite the time for her to come.” 

“Maternal demands,” Halide said knowingly. “I’m grateful that was never in the cards for my own life.”

“You embrace every waif and stray to cross your path,” Phryne accused playfully. “But I’m sure your students will insist you are nothing but a cruel harridan.”

“As they should,” Halide replied. 

“I don’t believe it.”

Halide waved the comment aside.

“And how did you come by Jane? I seem to recall a determination to never set down roots.”

“I suspect the roots were always there, waiting to sprout,” Phryne said. “Neither time nor distance seems to have killed them, and when I returned to Melbourne… well, it seems under the right circumstances they flourished.”

“A girl in trouble?”

Phryne gave a small smile, thinking of the people who had made Melbourne home, who ensured that no matter how far she flew she would always find her way back. 

“More than one, actually,” she said. “But Jane was, perhaps, the most desperate. I first met her standing beside a train, stolen diamonds in a handkerchief and an utter refusal to speak with the police officer who had found her.”

Halide laughed.

“She is wise.”

“Oh, the policeman wouldn’t have harmed her--his bark is far worse than his bite, really,” Phryne laughed fondly, remembering her first impressions of Jack. “They’ve spent more than a few afternoons discussing books and eating my sandwiches, though Jack insists he was merely ensuring my home remained suitable for an intelligent young woman.”

Halide arched an eyebrow, the question of why Phryne would tolerate such interference perfectly clear; Phryne laughed again.

“He spoke to Welfare on my behalf,” Phryne explained. “And has become a dear friend, to all my household. Without his help, I fear Jane’s life might have taken a very different turn. Several times, in fact.” The sudden memory of Jane’s near misses cast a pall on the afternoon, so Phryne quickly dismissed them--the girl was resilient, and thriving. “Really, she’s the most remarkable young woman. So clever. She’s teaching herself Turkish, you know.”

Halide laughed.

“There is no need to convince me,” she said. “Your word is good enough. We will be happy to welcome her to Istanbul in the new year.” Then she gave Phryne a teasing smile. “I can only hope her Turkish is an improvement on yours.”


	10. Vienna, Austria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this month included lyrics from Leonard Cohen's Take This Waltz 
> 
> And I'll dance with you in Vienna  
> I'll be wearing a river's disguise  
> The hyacinth wild on my shoulder  
> My mouth on the dew of your thighs

### Thursday, October 10th

Their hosts in Vienna were a long-time friend of Phryne’s and her husband; the evening Phryne arrived was also the date for the annual charity ball, and Phryne joined in a borrowed gown, swapping tales of adventures and dancing with minor European royalty. She tipsily waltzed herself to her suite as the evening wound down, humming lightly. London was their next stop. London, with her mother and her old life. London, where Jack would eventually be. London, where anything could happen. 

Setting aside first her hairpiece and then the rest of her borrowed jewels, still humming, Phryne replayed the evening. The conversation had been engrossing, the dancers exquisite, but alone in her room she found herself thinking of other conversations, other dances. Slipping her gown from her shoulders, she found herself imagining it was Jack’s fingers, honest and steady and slightly roughened, gliding across her shoulder, down her arm. 

It was not the first time she’d touched herself while thinking of him, but tonight it felt… different. Always before it had been a fantasy but never a promise, and the difference lit sparks across her body. Removing her gown, she let the cool air kiss her skin. Imagined Jack’s hot lips kissing her instead--the line of her throat, her clavicle, his hand on her back as he worked his way down one arm to her wrist. Whimpered as she felt the promise of a nip against her pulse point, the way his large hand would cradle hers, the darkened amusement in his eyes as he’d turn to read her face.

She’d burrow her free hand in his hair, tug at it lightly to encourage his mouth to hers, skim her hands against his body. Deepen their kisses as they stumbled towards the bed, feel the weight of his body against hers. She was in the bed now, one hand sliding down her body, her mind on the exact shade of blue his eyes would be in this light, the way he’d huff in exasperation when she’d push his trousers down. 

Stroking herself through the silk of her chemise, she pictured him sliding one hand up her thigh, beneath the hem; the silk was too smooth and she pushed it aside, teased her clit with slow circles. He’d be so exquisitely slow, she knew, methodical, reading her reactions and adjusting accordingly. She bit her lip, sped up slightly, hips bucking into her touch as she imagined the way he’d touch her, the kisses he’d trace up her thighs, the first contact of his mouth on her cunt, the appreciative noise he’d make at her taste. Fingers faster still, firmer; it wasn’t enough, not enough to match her fantasies. She moaned, frustrated, moved faster still. Imagined the weight of his hands as he spread her wider, the breaching thrust of his fingers (hers were too small, too smooth to be an adequate replacement and she added another, moved them in the way that always brought her undone, tried not to feel the difference between fantasy and reality), the warmth of his breath. Moved faster, thrust deeper, made choked little noises as she came apart before him, legs trembling and mouth gasping and every part of her in the throes of pleasure so deep it was almost pain. Imagined his touches in the aftermath, the way he’d slide his cock inside her, make love to her with the slowest of strokes, the way he’d murmur her name as they came together, like a slow-rolling wave; the way she’d hold onto him, pull him closer, whisper his name in return. 

Panting slightly, she pulled her hand away from her body, felt exhaustion overtaking her. But as she drifted off to sleep she imagined him beside her, the words she’d speak into the dark. Soon, she thought. Soon. 


End file.
